


And Yet Here We Are...

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Confessions, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Deaf Character, Deaf Jaskier, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kelpie Jaskier, Love Confessions, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Soulmates, Spirit Animals, Tumblr Prompts, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22917877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: A collection of one-shots based on tumblr prompts and asks.  Full of angst, whumps, and lots of emotions.Happy endings guaranteed! ;)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 74
Kudos: 746
Collections: Witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bostonbruiins asked:  
> literally anything where geralt is being mean to jaskier and then is guilty when it actually upsets the bard bc he doesn’t think before he speaks :( and then making up for it and realizing how all these things he’s said over the years have weighed on jaskier and JUST TRYING TO BE BETTER AFTER THAT. tysm i love ur writing

It happens so suddenly that Geralt finds himself stunned and stumbling like a soldier in his first battle.

He’s surrounded in a field full of growling, snapping ghouls trying to kill the fucking massive alghoul in the center when he hears it. Unmistakable despite the unexpectedness.

“ _Geralt_!”

Jaskier’s voice is high on adrenaline and foolish courage as he rushes into the fray with ~~his~~ Geralt’s spare sword held high. He slashes at the ghouls who turn toward the noise, managing through luck or skill to hack off the head of the first and shove another away.

Geralt curses viciously–torn between the need to protect the damn fool and the logic of killing the alghoul first. 

The beast decides it for him, slamming one hand into Geralt’s chest and leaping to close the distance between itself and Jaskier.

Jaskier turns–blue eyes wide and frightened–and takes the hit on his side, falling beneath the onslaught of a monster of nightmare and legend. He disappears beneath the weight of it.

And Geralt sees _red_.

He feels his hands grip onto the oily, slick, and rotting skin of the next ghoul and yanks its head loose in one vicious pull. His sword moves in a violent arc through the next, clearing the way to the alghoul with almighty purpose.

He can’t get the image of Jaskier’s expression out of his mind.

It drives him to madness as he roars and slams his weight against the alghoul–the last of the monsters left in a field of blood and viscera. The beast shrieks, bloodied jaws reaching for his throat, but Geralt is beyond caring. His sword is too large for such close conflict so he lets it fall to the grass, rolling with the rotting creature as they struggle bodily for control.

His hand slips low and finds the familiar hilt on his thigh. 

He thrusts upward, blade moving like an extension of himself. High and sharp and cutting deep–

He feels the wet pull of muscle giving way beneath his fingers and snarls into the face of the beast above him–

A twist, and then it goes still, face frozen in a permanent maw of agony.

Geralt lays still for a moment, panting, before he shoves the carcass off of him and gets to his feet. His heart is still pounding a vicious rhythm in his chest thanks to the adrenaline and potion he’d downed before wading into the fray. He scans the impromptu battlefield desperately, terrified of what he’d find.

Then, a groan and a small shift of movement.

Panic and terror gives way to anger as Jaskier slowly gets to his feet using Geralt’s sword as a crutch. He turns–his face streaked with mud and oily blood–and beams at Geralt.

“Well, Geralt, I think we really proved–”

“ _What the fuck do you think you were doing?_ ” Geralt’s voice is whip quick and carries the same sting. He sees Jaskier’s expression falter, but he’s near seething now. “I told you not to come near this area.”

“I know, but you didn’t come back when you said and I–”

“What? You thought you would be able to come in and _save_ me?” Geralt’s sneer felt as sharp as the ghoul’s hunger. “Did you really think you would be anything but a gigantic pain in my ass here?”

Jaskier’s voice trembles slightly and he leans more heavily against the sword. “Geralt-”

“The only thing you are good for is crafting lies to charm women into your bed and getting on my last damn nerve–neither of which is any good here!” Geralt paces away from him, trying to blow off some of his frustration by kicking on of the corpses.

“ _Please_ , I–”

“ _What_ , Jaskier? How could you possibly think that I would be glad to see you rush in like a damn fool just to get yourself included in the next stupid ballad you–”

Geralt’s words give way to horrified silence a moment after Jaskier fell unconscious on the ground.

He runs forward, ignoring the mud soaking into his clothes as he pulls Jaskier up against his chest. The bard is pale, completely limp in his grip. The stolen sword falls to the ground from lifeless fingers and Geralt feels his fury drain away so quickly he is breathless.

“Jaskier,” he calls, shaking the man. “Jaskier, wake up.”

Nothing. 

The only sound he hears is the echo of his vicious words and the heart beneath his palms beginning to slow…

* * *

The bite is high on the chest, just above a dusky nipple and the heart that continues to pulse weakly.

The sight of it makes Geralt feel a cold sweat creep down his back. _A ghoul’s bite is poison for human,_ Vesemir’s voice murmurs from his memories. _Better to kill the poor creature than to let it make the change._

Just the thought of using one of his blades to slit Jaskier’s throat makes him turn and vomit bile and regret onto the grass. 

There are more injuries littering Jaskier’s body, but Geralt knows that it is the bite that will doom them both. Already black lines filled with poison are spreading away from the cutting–taunting Geralt with their inevitability. This close to Jaskier’s most vital organs, it might only be a few hours before the bard would draw his last breath and awake a monster.

Unless…

Geralt’s hands shake as the reach for the knife at his side. It’s still caked with ghoul’s blood and he pauses to wipe it clean meticulously. He reaches out and cups one of Jaskier’s clammy, cold cheeks and whispers,

“Forgive me.”

And begins to cut.

* * *

Jaskier’s wakes–wild and glassy-eyed–after Geralt makes the second incision.

The ghouls blood stinks like rotten pus and burns like acid as it drips sluggishly from each carefully placed cut around the bite. His mouth is bloody from coaxing the black liquid free and his hands are forced to pin Jaskier flat against the earth as he works.

The bard screams, high and agonized. His eyes fix on Geralt mindlessly and tear carve pale trails through the dirt streaked across his face.

“Please–no! Don’t!” he begs, “Geralt, _please_!”

Geralt grits his teeth, feeling his own eyes burn at the betrayal in those blue eyes. “I have to get the poison out.”

His knife digs deep once more, the line jagged as Jaskier arches bodily in a weak attempt to escape the pain. He thrashes, wild as an animal caught in a trap, and sobs.

“Please, Geralt. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, I’m sorry.”

The bard babbling cuts off with another scream as more blood gushes from the wound. His body seizes and Geralt is forced to lay bodily against his in an attempt to keep him from hurting himself more. 

Geralt’s heart is made of ice and stone as he sees the last of the darkened and sickly blood run clear of the wound. His hand clenches around the slick handle of his knife and he takes a deep breath. The scent of poison and rot has faded now beneath the acid sharp scent of pain radiating from the sobbing bard.

He takes a breath and tells himself he deserves this suffering.

His hands trace the sigil _Igni_ as he looks over the trembling man beneath him, face turned away from the Witcher and teeth chattering in agony.

He waits until the blade is red hot before he presses it firmly against the bite.

Jaskier’s scream sends the birds into flight.

* * *

There are no towns close enough to risk moving the bard nor does he have some hidden trick that will summon a mage or a healer to his side. It is the first time since the mountains of Cairgorn that he has wished to see Yennefer, if only for her ability to heal what he seems incapable of not destroying.

Jaskier is still in his arms as Geralt carries him out of the woods and down a game trail that takes him to the trapper’s cabin that had started the mess. There are scratches and blood along the walls, but the door and windows are still intact. The bed stinks of old sweat, but Geralt finds fresh sheets laying limp and forgotten on the clothesline outside.

He makes the bed quickly, the unfamiliar task sped by the sight of Jaskier lying silently on the ground nearby.

The silence, he decides, might be the worst of it. It gives him plenty of time to remember the cruelty of his voice and the hurt he seemed to spew at Jaskier at every opportunity. Somehow, he always manages to lash out against the only person who has ever remained loyal and devoted even after seeing the worst parts of him.

But this, this might be the final blow that brings Jaskier’s endless faith to its knees.

Geralt tries to tell himself that he could watch Jaskier leave him if it meant the bard would survive this. 

It is little comfort.

* * *

Geralt stands watch over the too-still body for three days before he begins to hope that Jaskier might live.

He’s barely left the small bedside except to call for Roach and bring water and food for the bard. He washed away the blood and mud until Jaskier looks soft and young–so damn young–and almost peaceful. If you ignored the red, angry burns across his chest.

The scars are brutal–far more fitting for a Witcher than a bard. He winces when he thinks of what Jaskier will say when he sees them. The vanity and snobbishness of the courtiers Jaskier plays for is foreign to Geralt, but he would strip the skin from his bones to keep Jaskier from feeling their scorn or pity. 

Geralt has ruined so much of the man laying pale and broken before him.

He leans his head against the mattress, feeling his eyes burn once again at the reminder of what he had done. Jaskier could have died with Geralt’s sneering and mockery still echoing in his ears. He would have believed every bit of the poison the Witcher spewed in place of real emotions and to avoid the concern he truly felt. It proved what Jaskier had been trying to disprove all along:

Geralt was a monster.

* * *

The Witcher wakes to hands carding through the tangled strands of his hair.

For a moment, his mind is at peace, enjoying a rare moment of calm with Jaskier–

Geralt’s head snaps up so quickly the bard jerks in surprise, wincing as the gesture irritates the wound on his chest. Geralt feels his body tremble faintly and his voice is raw with emotion when he speaks. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier gives him an awkward smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, yes. Sorry for waking you. It just, it looked like you were uncomfortable.”

The bard’s voice is raspy and rough from the screams Geralt will hear in his nightmares for the rest of his life. He stands quickly and grabs a cup near the water pitcher to press to Jaskier’s lips. “Stay still,” he says, “You still need to rest.”

“Must be bad if you stayed,” Jaskier answers with a trace of bitterness. Blue eyes flick to Geralt and then skitter away to focus on the fingers toying nervously with the sheets. “You don’t have to, you know. Stay, that is. I know I shouldn’t have distracted you like that. You don’t owe me anything–it was my fault.”

Geralt’s throat goes tight and he falls to his knees beside the bed. He grips Jaskier’s hand like it’s made of glass, pressing his forehead against his palm. Tears drip unnoticed down his cheeks and his voice trembles, “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Geralt…”

The Witcher shakes his head when Jaskeir starts to speak, determined to release the words that had been swirling in his mind since he’d seen Jaskier charging into battle. 

“I should never have said those things to you. It’s just–I thought you’d _died_ when that alghoul turned on you and it was easier to be angry than be scared. Then you nearly died right after I said all those horrible things, and I–”

Jaskier’s hand shifts against him, coaxing Geralt’s chin up until he was staring at the bard while tears dripped down his cheeks.

“I would never survive losing you, Jaskier. Not now, not decades from now when we’re both old and slow. I will never forgive myself for all the scars and the pain I’ve caused you and I wouldn’t blame you if you chose to leave me for it.” Just the thought made his stomach twist in knots. “But if you give me a chance, I will spend the rest of my life making up for every horrible thing I’ve said to you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are bright with an emotion that Geralt is too terrified to hope for. His fingers tighten around Geralt’s jawline until the Witcher raises up on his knees to close the distance between them.

“Ready to start making it up to me?” he purrs and leans forward to swallow Geralt’s sigh of relief with his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: No one is always in their best spirits and everyone has low, tough days, and sometimes with the highest highs come the lowest lows. This includes Jaskier. Why not Geralt dealing with one of the bard’s rare low days? Maybe for the first time or later on, after he knows what works best to ease Jaskier’s melancholy.

It’s been twenty four hours since Jaskier last played.

Normally, such a spree of silence would have been a treat to the Witcher. Now, he hesitates beside Roach and watches the bard as they make camp.

The man is silent, fingers unmoving. The usual song and dance that seems to emanate from every movement is as funeral march. His face is somber, thoughts turned inward in a way that settled oddly on the expressive features. 

Geralt frowns at his saddle. The fact that he even notices such things is a symbol of just how much traveling with Jaskier has changed him down to his marrow. He finds himself worrying about things that used to be nothing more than trivial. Is their fire large enough to chase away the night chill? Is there a river or creek close enough to let the bard bathe away the road dust?

_Is Jaskier happy here in the woods with only the Witcher and monsters to keep him company?_

All his mind can seem to focus on now is the silence.

_Something is wrong,_ a quiet voice whispers within Geralt. _Maybe he’s sick._

_Maybe he finally realized that he doesn’t want to be with me._

The thought alone feels like a bolt of agony. If Jaskier wanted to leave, Geralt would never stop him. He would also never recover the piece of his heart the bard took with him. It was a strange thing to suddenly be faced with just how important Jaskier had become over the years of traveling together. The prospect of traveling alone now feels like the worst sort of torment.

He licks his lips, anxiety an unfamiliar pit in his stomach, and faces the bard.

“Jaskier,” he says softly, “are you alright?”

The bard looks startled by the question. He blinks, then frowns. “Of course, Witcher. I’m not hurt.”

Geralt makes a frustrated sound close to a growl and watches Jaskier return to his task of setting out the bedrolls. He wishes speech came as easily to him as it did the human. He scrabbles at the words that would chase away the shadows lingering at the edges of the blue sky that is Jaskier’s eyes and feels them disappear like smoke. 

Roach stamps her foot in a passive aggressive reminder that she still needs to be brushed down and he scowls. Resolve fills him as he begins to pull the heavy saddle and blanket off her back.

Words may not come easy, but deeds…deeds he can do.

* * *

The next morning, he wakes himself just as dawn is cresting over the distant hills. He creeps away from camp and returns with a brace of hares that are simmering merrily over the fire by the time Jaskier opens his eyes.

The bard smiles quizzically at where Geralt is sitting ~~anxiously~~ casually beside the unexpectedly nice breakfast. “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise,” he says after a beat.

Geralt grunts, but his eyes are fixed on the soft smile that fades after their meal is finished and it’s time to head out.

Again, he waits for the usual musical notes and rhymes that color each mile they travel and is disappointed by only a few comments about the weather.

He clenches his jaw and stares into the distant curve of the road. He will just have to try harder to convince Jaskier that this life of travel can still bring him joy and inspiration.

* * *

The next morning there is a freshly skinned wolf pelt drying across Roach’s haunches that would make a lovely coat.

Jaskier looks at it for a moment in confusion. “I’m sure Yennefer will enjoy it.”

“It’s for you,” Geralt blurts, feeling a hot flush creep up his neck.

The human blinks, shock evident. He rakes his fingers through his hair and seems to search for words. “I–uh, thank you, Geralt. That was kind of you.”

Geralt hums and turns away before he has to come up with a response to the question in the bard’s eyes.

* * *

The next day he deposits a small bouquet of flowers, dotted with the bright yellows of dandelions and buttercups, on Jaskier’s bedroll while the man is still deep asleep. 

He starts to move back toward his bedroll, already concocting some sort of excuse for the gift, when a hand reaches out of the pile of blankets and closes around his ankle.

Geralt turns his head and finds bright blue eyes frowning up at him.

“Why are you doing this?” Jaskier whispers.

Words fail him. He stares at him, trying to find the right words, and sees the moment when Jaskier’s temper flares to the surface.

“It’s not fair to tease me like this. I know I’ve always been a joke to you, Geralt, but this is becoming cruel.”

Geralt frowns, shocked by the accusation. “I–I’m not teasing you.”

“Well, what other explanation do you have for all this– _this_?” Jaskier asks with a gesture to the flowers that have fallen to the ground beside his blankets and the pelt hanging near the fire.

He flushes, fighting the frustration and embarrassment that feels like it’s choking him. “You were sad!” he practically shouts, “I was trying to make you happy again before you–you–”

Jaskier’s hand tightens around his ankle and he looks down at it, frowning. Mentally he prepares himself for the rejection and farewell that he knows is coming.

“Before I what?”

Geralt’s voice is as flat as he imagines Valdo Marx’s voice must be. “Before you left.”

Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to frown. He sits up, head even with Geralt’s waist and gestures for the Witcher to sit next to him. He does so despite the way his skin seems to itch with the need to move. “Why would I leave?”

“You…you’re unhappy here,” Geralt says quietly, a sinner confessing the worst of their guilt, “You’ve always enjoyed the city life. It’s obvious that you would want to return to it once the excitement wore off of traveling.”

There was a long pause while Geralt stared down at the scars marring his palms in a permanent testament to the dangers of this life. He nearly jumps when he feels another hand settle on his knee.

“I’m not leaving you, Geralt.”

The Witcher shivers under the weight of those words and gathers the strength to look up at Jaskier. “I can’t make you happy,” he says miserably.

“You did all this to make me happy?” Jaskier asks, a small smile twitching at his lips.

Geralt nods, unsure.

Then he’s falling back under the weight of his bard, sleep warm and burrowing against Geralt like a drowning man to shore. Geralt’s breath leaves him in a relieved rush and he wraps his hands around the smaller human, settling him more firmly against him and filling his lungs with the comforting scent. Cedar. Wood oil. Meadow grass. 

Jaskier.

The bard makes a soft sound of relief and happiness that Geralt can smell tinging his scent with notes of orange and sunlight. He tightens his hold and shifts until his breath is warm on Geralt’s neck.

“Just hold me, my love. That’s all I need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off this beautiful artwork:
> 
> <https://geraskierficrecs.tumblr.com/post/190823922710/craftgamerzz-ya-alls-its-geraskierweek-day>

Jaskier was walking down a road in some nameless town when he first saw it. **  
**

A massive white wolf keeping pace just beside him like a reverse shadow.

If he had a lick of intelligence, he probably would have been frightened, but instead he found himself turning to face the creature directly only to have it disappear again. He frowned, turning in place for some sign of the massive beast, but was alone again. Strange.

The next time the wolf appeared, he was in the process of getting his ass kicked by a group of unhappy tavern patrons. Apparently singing of abortions in a lighthearted manner was not acceptable for some. Either way, it wasn’t long before they’d found him outside the inn with only his lute to protect him.

There was a flash of white in the corner of his eye that moved closer just as the man closest to him landed a kick to the bard’s stomach.

Jaskier wheezed, curling in on himself.

“Not so talkative now, are you?” one of them rasped, laughing at the soft sounds of pain that the smaller man couldn’t seem to smother. 

Whatever they would have said next was drowned out by the sensation of heat along his side and soft fur against his skin. Jaskier flinched and opened his eyes to stare up into yellow eyes. The wolf looked him over with something close to worry before turning toward the retreating back of his attackers with a low growl.

Jaskier’s voice sounded rough and grating with pain when he licked his lips and spoke to the strange creature. “If you’re going to eat me, I guess I’ll be tender now.”

The wolf flicked an ear at him dismissively. Somehow the gesture made him smile.

“Am I going crazy? Seeing things or are you really here?” he whispered, some part of him rejecting the possibility of what was in front of him.

He knew the tale as well as any bard. How souls could manifest as spirit animals and guides to walk with the matching piece of their heart. A connection to keep each partner from being truly alone until they found one another. A reminder that they had someone waiting for them…somewhere.

Slowly, breath trapped in his throat, Jaskier reached out to gently close the distance between them and let his fingers sink into the thick fur. The wolf rumbled something almost like a purr and shifted to settle more heavily against Jaskier’s side. He nosed at the bruise blooming dark on his cheek and licked away a happy tear from his chin.

Pain forgotten, Jaskier threw his hands around the wolf’s neck, grinning into the fur. His smile widened when the beast accepted the display of affection with begrudging patience.

“I can’t wait to meet you.”

* * *

Somewhere deep beneath the earth in an abandoned mine shaft infested with rotfiends, a Witcher scowled at the tiny bird that seemed to be determined to make a nest in the long strands of his hair. It paused long enough to trill a sweet song loud enough that Geralt heard a howl echoing from the monsters in the distance.

“Fuck.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Prompt: What about the hanahaki disease prompt it’s too good to ignore
> 
> Okay, Hanahaki stories are my guilty pleasure even though I’ve never written one. I might flesh this out with a little more plot one day, but for now, enjoy these moments of anguish.

The first time his heart breaks, Jaskier is covered in blood and standing outside the rubble of a ruined castle.

He can hear Chiraedan’s shocked breath next to him, but it’s nothing compared to the exquisite agony of discovering Geralt is alive and choosing to ‘celebrate’ that fact by fucking the very sorceress that had been tormenting Jaskier moments before.

It was his fault really.

Everyone on the Continent knew that Witchers never loved. He had been content with he position at Geralt’s side if it meant he could occasionally relish in the flutter of his heart when the Witcher graced him with one of his rare smiles or dry jokes. He could sing new songs of adventure and pretend he wasn’t already falling too deep into the gravity of Geralt’s affections.

Then he’d felt his throat rip and tear beneath the Djinn’s magic. He’d felt what it was like to have Geralt’s arms wrap around him and watch the man above him focus all his energy on saving him. How was he supposed to go back to pretending he wasn’t affected by the sound of Geralt murmuring his name? He’d been so happy even while he thought he would die. Now it felt like that happiness was the real curse behind the Djinn’s magic.

Inside, he hears Geralt make a soft sound of pleasure and he feels his chest ache. His throat burns like his lungs are filled with razor--digging deeper with each breath.

He turns away from the window, telling himself he should just be glad that Geralt is safe and the Djinn’s magic is gone. 

He can forget the emotions that had only grown with each step taken in Geralt’s wake. He could find some willing lass in the next village to drown his sorrow with.

Jaskier takes a deep breath and feels something rough catch in his throat. Reflexively, he coughs, low and rough, in his hand. After a moment, he glances down at his palm and feels himself go still in fear and shock.

There, curled beside a small splatter of blood, is a pale white petal.

* * *

The cough only got worse the longer he traveled with Geralt after he met Yennefer.

Eventually, Geralt began to notice the scent of blood that seemed to linger around Jaskier. There were always excuses to be made--nicked himself shaving, tripped and fell, a fight with a jealous spouse--but even those weren’t enough to cover the way Jaskier was beginning to struggle to sing without pausing to breathe through the ache in his chest. Or the larger pieces of flowers that he now brought up.

He knew it wouldn’t be long now. 

Jaskier looked to where Geralt was talking gently to Roach and down at the crushed peony in his hand. 

“Just a little longer,” he whispered down to the flower, like he could beg the disease to slow its relentless growth. 

_Just a little longer._

* * *

_“If life could give me one blessing--”_

Jaskier can feel the burning agony in his chest digging deeper, as though the roots were burrowing into his very bones. It is all he can do to keep himself upright as Geralt destroys him with every syllable.

_“--it would be to rid me of you!”_

He stares, blinking back tears and tries to catch his breath. 

It’s becoming harder now. Everything is harder now. He’d hoped to enjoy this last adventure at Geralt’s side before he finally admitted that he wasn’t capable of traveling any longer. He would make some excuse for the Witcher, of course. Maybe pretend the Countess de Stael still wanted him.

Anything to avoid watching Geralt chase after Yennefer again.

The disease only grew worse each time he had to watch the mage appear with sly smiles and hidden agendas only to disappear with Geralt’s affections trailing in her wake. He wanted to scream at her, to beg her to understand all that she had been given and so easily tossed away. He wanted to paint some masterpiece of the look in Geralt’s eyes when he thought of her and show her the beauty she so easily overlooked.

But he wasn’t a painter, he was a bard.

He wasn’t even a friend to the Witcher he’d given his whole heart to.

If Jaskier wasn’t dying, he would have crafted a ballad describing this moment that would leave crowds in tears. Somehow he doubted he would have time after Geralt finished destroying him without ever raising his sword.

“Alright,” Jaskier whispered, forcing his voice to remain even despite the cough itching at the back of his throat. He’d had plenty of practice now, “I’ll just...get the story from the others.”

He had to grit his teeth to avoid coughing up the petals and stems and raw ache in his chest. Even if Geralt hated him, he wouldn’t allow his death to weigh on the Witcher’s conscience. He wouldn’t burden him with the misery of what loving Geralt had brought down on the bard.

Jaskier would give him the blessing he wished for.

The bard turned, stiff and awkward against the intense need to cough. His breaths were shallow. It felt as though his lungs were unable to hold oxygen any more. Too full of the flowers that would adorn his corpse.

He walked.

There was no point in attempting to find the path they’d used before. He only let the pull of gravity and the downward slope do the work for him. 

_But the story is this, she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

Once he was out of earshot, he coughed until his vision danced with spots and his stomach heaved with the need to eject the curse growing within him. Jaskier left the small pile of leaves and petals beside the path. There was no point in burying them like he had the others. Maybe it would even help bring someone to where ever his body finally collapsed.

His vision wavered with the next wave of coughing and he stumbled hard enough that his knees hit the ground hard enough to make him whimper. He spat a clump of peony petals dyed red with his blood and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Each breath felt like a struggle and a dark part of him wanted to laugh at the idea of the very thing that made him famous being what killed him.

Stubbornly, Jaskier forced himself to his feet and continued down the mountain. Any hope of reaching a village before he collapsed for good seemed to disappear with each step. His strength was fading fast. The shadows created by the sunset made the forest seem dark and forbidding in a way that never happened when Geralt was by his side.

He couldn’t help but think it was absurd to die from loving the wrong person instead of at the hand of all the monsters he’d seen in his lip.

Jaskier’s foot hit a root and he fell hard, hitting his side hard enough to expel what little air he’d managed to drag in. He coughed. Spat out more flowers--larger now that he was close to the end. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the bright red sky, blinking away the tears that ran down his cheeks.

_A red sky at dawn is giving you warning, you fool_

He wanted to laugh at the irony of the lyric that was meant to convince Geralt to realize who truly loved him. And Geralt had never given it a second thought.

Just as he’d never thought of Jaskier as more than an annoyance.

There was nothing left for him but to wait for his foolish heart to finish this. He coughed again, curling on his side to try to ease some of the pressure. The temperature was beginning to drop with the loss of the sunlight and he shivered miserably. He scrubbed at his face roughly before another long series of coughs left him gasping and aching.

He could feel the wet mixture of dirt, blood, and flower petals against his cheek, but couldn’t summon the strength to move just yet. A tear dripped off one of his lashes and he huddled more tightly to try to conserve his heat. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t make it to the morning.

His thoughts went slow and sluggish, smothering without the oxygen he needed to survive. He blinked, fighting to drag his eyes open again.

i love you.

The words he’d never been able to say felt like poison, but he could help but whisper them into the night.

“I love you, Geralt.”

Jaskier coughed, fighting through a wave of dizziness and panic when he couldn’t catch his breath. He pressed his cheek against the cold earth and tried not to cry.

“...love...you..”

There was a sound nearby--a snap of a branch--and Jaskier tried not to sigh. It was just his luck that he would be eaten by some beast before the disease took him. He hoped for it to be quick, at least. Perhaps a siren to sing him into the dark...

“--kier.”

The voice was familiar even through the thick cloud of agony filling his mind. He turned toward it, too weak to do anything else.

“ _Jaskier_!”

Strong hands wrapped around his arms and lifted him into a sitting position, leaning his head against a strong chest. He didn’t need to smell the familiar scent of leather and blood to know it was Geralt. 

Smiling up at the phantom, Jaskier’s eyes fluttered weakly in an attempt to see Geralt’s face one last time. Whatever creature or doppler that had chosen this form had chosen well...he would never fight against Geralt. No matter what it cost him.

“What happened?” 

The creature’s voice was nearly perfect, Jaskier thought weakly. It would have been foolproof were it not for the way Geralt’s hands were shaking and the thundering heartbeat in his ear. The Witcher would never allow himself to react so much.

Jaskier cough, turning away in an attempt to hide the damage. His throat closed around something thin and his fingers scrabbled weakly at his mouth to pull it free. It made him gag and heave, but eventually he dropped a fully formed pink peony and its stem onto the ground beside him. He closed his eyes, strength fading.

“You...you’re sick,” Geralt said.

Jaskier gave him a weak smile. “I’m dying.”

His voice was a raw husk of what it once was. Weak and wanting even at the end.

Geralt’s arms tightened around him and abruptly he was being lifted. The sound of pounding footsteps felt far away now. He leaned closer against Geralt until the Witcher was all he could see.

“Stay with me Jaskier.”

Jaskier smiled, mentally thanking whatever creature or hallucination had created this fantasy. 

It made it easier to slip away into the dark.

* * *

The world shook against him and he sucked in a ragged gulp of air. Tasted the blood and misery on his lips.

“Tell me who it is!” Gold eyes snapped fire at him from the darkness in his vision. Jaskier swayed like a tree in the wind, trying to focus. “Jaskier! Tell me who it is! I’ll find them!”

“too..late, ’m afraid,” Jaskier rasped and felt blood drip from his lips.

He fought to keep his eyes open and focused on Geralt. There were monsters lurking here, hidden in the shadows. Waiting for him to collapse. Laughing at the stupid bard who’d always aimed for impossible targets.

“No! I’ll bring whoever it is to you and you’ll get better. You _have_ to get better!”

His head slumped forward, but calloused fingers cradled his cheeks. Jaskier’s eyes opened through sheer force of will and he summoned a weak smile for the ghost in front of him.

“It was,” he swallowed another mouthful of petals, “always you, my love.”

There was a roaring in his ears that matched the thunder of his heart. Geralt’s mouth moved to shape words, but Jaskier was far past hearing. He let himself go limp, relieved of the burden of his feelings at last.

* * *

Waking up again was a surprise.

His whole body felt like it was bruised and battered beyond recognition. Each breath irritated the rough skin at the back of his throat and he groaned.

Instantly someone was there to help lift his head and press a cup of cool water to his lips. He drank greedily, feeling like his stomach was empty for the first time in ages. The water was better than anything he’d tasted and he made a noise of protest when it was pulled away.

“You’ll get sick if you drink too much,” a voice rumbled.

Jaskier’s eyes opened in surprise and he turned to find Geralt sitting next to him. He blinked, trying to banish the hallucination for the sake of his sanity.

“I’m dead,” he said flatly. It was the only explanation for the Witcher sitting here beside him. Not after what he’d said.

Geralt’s lips pursed into a scowl. “Not quite, but you came close.”

“Ah,” Jaskier tried for levity despite the way he wanted to crawl away and hide himself from Geralt’s too-knowing gaze, “that explains why you’re here. Saving me again.”

The Witcher remained silent, his thoughts hidden behind his stoic expression.

He tried not wince at the pain that lanced through him at the thought of what Geralt had witnessed. Jaskier looked away, shifting to lay back down until he could gather the strength to sit up on his own. Feeling Geralt’s hands on him was too much after all that had happened.

“Must have been good luck to find a healer so quickly,” he rambled to fill the tense silence between them, “Thank you for that. You, uh...you won’t need to wait any longer for me. I’ll just be on my way as soon as--”

“Did you mean it?”

Jaskier’s head snapped up at the sudden question. Geralt was looking at him oddly, something unreadable in his expression.

The bard licked his lips, eyes darting around the simple rom before flitting back to the Witcher. “Mean what?” he tried weakly.

“Did you mean what you said? About why you were sick?” Geralt pressed.

Jaskier’s eyes fell closed against the cold wash of fear that raced down his spine. This was it. The moment he had tried so hard to avoid with all his lies and fake smiles. The moment when Geralt saw his feelings for what they were and sent him on his way. Whatever reprieve he’d gained in the brief relief of seeing Geralt again would disappear just as quickly now. He could already feel the tingle at the back of his throat.

He felt curiously calm as he gathered the shreds of his courage and spoke.

“Yes.”

“You’re in love with me.”

His heart thundered in his ears, but Jaskier forced himself to nod.

“How long?” Geralt rasped.

A wry twist of his lips. “Since the djinn.”

The Witcher stood with a burst of barely restrained energy. He paced away from Jaskier’s sick bed and raked his fingers through his hair until it was freed from its tie. When he looked back at Jaskier, he looked almost feral.

“I--I didn’t-”

“Know?” Jaskier let out a ragged laugh, “Of course you didn’t. I knew you didn’t feel the same.”

“You would have died without telling me?”

The bard’s mouth went flat. “I’m a very selfish man, Geralt, but even I wouldn’t risk you feeling guilty for what was going to happen--not when you were in love with someone else. It was my choice.”

“Are you still in love with me?” Geralt asked softly.

He huffed out a mirthless laugh. “I never stopped.”

There was a soft click as the door shut and Jaskier felt his strength wane beneath the crushing agony of reality. This was the end he had been dreading since he’d first recognized the symptoms. Geralt was gone and all there was left to hope for was the death he’d already tested. He closed his eyes again, biting back a sob through gritted teeth.

Then there were arms closing around him and pressing him against a chest still stiff with the armor he hadn’t bothered to remove. 

Jaskier froze in shock, too bewildered to do more than make a soft sound of surprise. Soft lips pressed against his forehead and he felt Geralt heave out a long, slow breath.

“Idiot,” he whispered.

The bard blinked, still confused. “I’m sure you’re right, but why...?”

“I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Oh...” Jaskier whispered and nodded, “It’s okay. You were upset.”

“I should never have said that,” Geralt said, his arms tightening around Jaskier, “I regretted it as soon as I realized you were gone. And then I found the blood...”

Jaskier winced at the reminder of what had happened on the mountain. He was sure his path down the hill was easy to follow even without Witcher training. He’d stopped to cough small piles of flowers and leaves several time and stumbled his way through the underbrush without any concern for the trail he was leaving behind him.

“Well, I appreciate you saving me and finding a healer,” he said quickly, leaning back to press a hand to his chest and relish being able to breathe without pain. He was sure it wouldn’t last long. “I expect you need to leave soon.”

“I didn’t find a healer.”

Jaskier froze, frowning at Geralt in confusion. “What? But I...”

The Witcher met his eyes. “I didn’t _need_ a healer to fix what I broke.”

Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Jaskier’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the prompt! Sorry it took so long to fill--this was quite a bit longer than I expected, but I hope you liked it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lunarthedragon asked:  
> If you aren’t sick of me yet, for the angst prompt, why not Jaskier or Geralt going deaf? You pick who and how permanent or temporary it is.

Jaskier’s heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest and his lungs are racing it.

He knows he’s hyperventilating-- _he knows it_ \--but he can’t fucking _hear_ it.

He can’t fucking hear _anything_.

The thought makes black spots dance at the edges of his vision and he grabs his own throat with shaking fingers, desperate for some kind of sign that he isn’t suffocating under all this silence--

Gentle hands catch his and he’d know them _anywhere_ , even if gentleness was never something trained at Kaer Morhen. He reaches out. Anchors himself like he’s being swept out to sea.

But the only salt in the air is from the tears that are blurring his vision and transforming Geralt into a silver haired blur that grabs Jaskier by the shoulders and tilts him back as though to get a closer look at his body. 

Jaskier makes an awful noise--he can feel it in the back of his throat--but he can’t. fucking. hear. it!

Then he’s being pressed against a chest that is still covered in the armor he’d donned that morning. He’d been hiding a smile at Jaskier’s rude description of a particularly ham-handed patron he’d punched the night before and reminding Jaskier when he’d paused between breaths to remain out of sight when he went to face the mage. 

Which, of course, Jaskier hadn’t listened to any longer than it had taken him to realize the mage had outmaneuvered Geralt and was prepared to fire a spell at the Witcher’s unprotected side. 

Geralt had cast Quen, but Jaskier knew it was already too late even before he’d felt himself lifted and tossed across the clearing.

The last thing he’d heard was Geralt shouting his name and the roar of blood in his ears.

“I can’t, I can’t,” he keeps repeating desperately, “I can’t, I can’t--”

Geralt’s concerned face fills his vision a moment before he’s being lifted and he can feel the familiar rhythm of being carried back to Roach. He can’t seem to stop grasping at Geralt’s armor like it’s all that is holding him together.

He wants to be strong enough to dismiss this spell as just another symptom of the life of daring and danger he’d agreed to that day in Posada. He’s told himself more than once that one day it won’t be Geralt who is too slow--it’ll be Jaskier failing to move out of the way of some beast and joining the list of countless humans the Witcher has buried. He’d accepted that truth. He didn’t fear death if it meant staying at Geralt’s side for the rest of his life.

But this...this is worse. Worse than anything he could’ve imagined.

Something bumps against his leg as Geralt kicks Roach into a gallop and it’s habit that tells him it’s his lute. He’d know the smooth wood anywhere.

Only now he won’t be able to hear the thrum of its chords. Won’t be able to hear the cheers of a crowd or listen to his voice push itself to new notes and registers. 

His voice and his ability to hear music is his identity.

And he’s lost it.

It’s not until Geralt’s hands wrap around his wrists and force his hands away that he realizes that he’s clawing at his ears like he can pull away the spell. Like he can force his hearing to return by flipping some switch or digging through blood and muscle and sinew until he’s laid bare.

Geralt is speaking to him--he can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest--but he can’t hear him. He never will again.

Jaskier feels something deep within him go untethered at the thought. He stares out at the woods and trees and lets his mind

just

fade away.

* * *

Hands wrap around him and pull and he goes without protest. 

He can see lights and shadows, but he only registers them dully. He stands on numb feet, swaying slightly to a rhythm he can only remember.

Geralt leans closer, looking more and more alarmed, when he takes in the devastation that has carved new lines into Jaskier’s face and ripped jagged grooves into his soul. He can’t summon up the flirty smiles and quips that he usually uses to distract others from his true feelings. 

He is hollow.

The Witcher wraps his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist and pulls him forward like a child. He follows with his eyes on the ground.

He doesn’t look up until sharp fingers are tilting his chin up to meet purple eyes and a furrowed brow. 

Yennefer’s eyes flick over to Geralt and her lips move. Geralt’s hand tightens around his wrist.

Jaskier closes his eyes against the agony of not being able to hear even her voice. Tears drip down his chin, but he ignores it within the dark silence of his new world.

He feels her grip shift and brush against his hairline before he’s falling once again into black unconsciousness.

* * *

Someone is humming.

It’s low and has the rough quality of someone who is not professionally trained, but Jaskier thinks he recognizes one of his own tunes. He tilts toward the sound, something deep within him taking comfort in it before--

His eyes snap open and he jerks hard enough that he nearly topples off the bed.

Beneath him the bed--no, the person--he was lying on shifts quickly to catch him before he can tumble to the ground and he finds himself pressed against a warm body that he would recognize half-blind and drunk.

“Geralt,” he whispers.

Jaskier freezes, his hand going to his neck even as the Witcher gently pushes his arms back to his side. “No more scratching at your poor throat. I can’t stand it.”

“I can hear you.” The words tremble under a raw emotion Jaskier rarely allows himself to feel.

“Yes,” A kiss is pressed against his brow and he hears Geralt take in a shuddering breath. “Yenn said the curse should be fully gone within a few hours.”

Jaskier blinks, feeling like he’s going to shake apart under the painfully impossible reality of hearing again. He latches on to something simpler.

“You’re humming.”

Geralt shifts in a way experience tells Jaskier means he’s embarrassed. “I just thought it would be the easiest way to tell if it was working. I can stop--”

“ _Don’t_ ,” the word is too raw for the gentle way Geralt is holding him against him, but Jaskier feels like his control is only hanging on by a shred. “I--I just...please don’t stop.”

For a heartbeat, he can feel the way Geralt is just as unsettled by the day’s events, but then he tightens his hold, settles his forehead against Jaskier’s nape and begins to sing.

_“It’s not fair. It’s not fair how much I love you...”_

Jaskier’s lips tremble into a fragile smile as he closes his eyes and _listens_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so SOFT for these two. I CAN'T.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kelpie Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> innocentcinnamonpun asked:  
> Could I possibly prompt some feral buffskier? Or inhuman Jaskier? :D Congrats on 3K!!!  
> ___________________________________
> 
> Thanks for sending in a prompt! I decided to explore some nonhuman Jaskier that’s fully feral. I haven’t seen a whole lot of nonhuman Jaskier stories using Celtic mythology so I’m going to be a little self indulgent for this, but I hope you like it! (Bonus points if you can guess what Jaskier is before it’s revealed!)

The sound of a fight stirs him from his slumber.

Even trickling through the still waters of his lake, the sound of flesh meeting flesh is unmistakable. As is the soft, gritted noise of pain.

He shifts, body fluid and inky black as the waters around him. The water parts like a lover before him and he revels in the familiar sensation of power and control. These are _his_ waters. _His_ home. 

So why was someone hunting in his territory?

Another sound--a scuffle and another grunt of effort--and Jaskier scents blood in the air, beginning to seep into the shallow waters on the shore. He drifts closer, the predator inside of him writhed beneath his skin. Eager. His mouth opened to run the tastes over his tongue as the water passed through the gills at his neck.

At the surface, he was careful not to create any ripples that might give away his presence, but he needn’t have bothered. 

Two muscular forms were rolling across the ground at the shore sending mud flying and breaking the rushes that grew there. His ears pricked, equine head rising up out of the waterline when he saw the flash of steel dart through the air to land among the bushes farther back. Humanoid features twisted in a grimace of pain that matched the scream of triumph from the creature atop the warrior.

He didn’t need to scent the fire and ash in the air to know what beast was hunting so close to his home. Caorthannach, his lips shaped on a subvocal growl. A creature of heat and anguish that reveled in the agonies of others, relishing violence for violence’s sake. It never tired. All it knew was hunger and the desire to spread its own fury and pain into others.

Even worse, it had attracted a Witcher.

This, at least, was an exciting enough development to justify being disturbed from his sleep. Jaskier had heard the legends of the humans who’d been experimented on by their own kind to become monsters of their own. Faster, stronger than their kin and capable of standing against the darkest shadows that lurked in the night. His mother--before she’d chased him away from her nest--had warned him often not to ever attract the attention of humans and their terrifying guardians.

Now there was one only a few yards away, struggling to avoid the claws and flames of the demon above him. He should be afraid, angry even. The Caorthannach’s presence has ensured his relative peace in this remote lake was in danger. He should sink back into the depths and stay quiet until the Witcher left. Instead, he found himself moving closer, breathing in air filled with the scent of blood and more enticing notes of leather and sweat.

Something primitive within him stirs at the strength lingering in each block and shift beneath pale skin. It spoke of power, of _promise_.

_Mate_ , his beast purred. _Mine_.

The thought was enough to make him go still. His kind weren’t known for their pairs except in rare occurrences. They were too wild, too territorial to risk allowing their kind to get close. Tales of true mates, of soul bonds and love, were just that--stories to cling to when the water’s cold seeped too far into your bones and your thoughts felt brittle enough to break under the strain. 

The Caorthannach shrieks and lunges forward, teeth jagged and eager. The Witcher hisses out a breath full of pain, blood pooling in the dark mud. That quickly, any hesitance Jaskier feels disappears beneath the roar that rips free from his throat.

He rushes forward, shedding water like he sheds his skin in favor of legs designed for running over the earth. The demon has enough time to look up in surprise before Jaskier is on top of him. He lashes out with sharp hooves, connecting bodily and throwing the other beast away. He barely takes the time to glance back at his Witcher to ensure he was still breathing before he focuses on his prey.

It screams in rage at him, spitting a blast of fire like a wipe that burns the hide along his flank and adds to Jaskier’s fury. He bugles like a stallion and rears up to lash out with his front hooves, herding the beast towards the water where the mud slows its movements. The Caorthannach flounders, instinctively wanting to avoid the element that was so contrary to its own magic, but pinned by its furious attacker.

Jaskier is fierce with the knowledge that his mate is injured and still in danger only a few feet away. He wants to draw out the battle to repay the blood debt, but he is eager to see for himself that his Witcher is alright.

So he uses his size to his advantage. He kicks out, again and again, ignoring cuts and burns from when the demon strikes back. He herds it back into the water until stumbling in the knee-high waters. It flounders, trying to get back to shore, but it’s already too late.

Nothing can escape a Kelpie in its own waters.

The sounds of splashing slowly drown out the rush of fire and roar of the Caorthannach. Then there was only silence.

Slowly, Jaskier pulls himself up out of the water and stand at his full height. Water drips over dark hide and makes his muscles gleam in the moonlight. He watches the Witcher’s eyes widen and preens.

Like all Kelpies, he shifts between forms at will based on his needs. To his victims, he appears as a dark horse with a dripping mane with wild eyes. He prefers to target the bandits that prey on unwitting travelers on the main road, only occasionally going into town to find men and women whose homes were filled with muffled screams and cries of pain from small voices. He likes the stories that warn others to avoid the main roads at night.

When he’s bored, he appears as a lean man with dark hair and the same pale blue eyes that follow him between forms and visits the taverns. He likes the humans and their quick laughter and cheerful songs. It’s so different from his own lonely life, even if he feels like an outsider lurking among them.

Jaskier lets his human form step forward out of the water, uncaring that he steps out naked aside from the cuts left behind by his battle. They’ll disappear within a few days and he relishes the proof that he’d protected his mate.

The Witcher sits up, his fingers pressed against his side where blood is darkening his armor and his golden eyes wary. “Kelpie,” he murmurs quietly.

Jaskier tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Witcher.”

His voice is hoarse from lack of use, but the Witcher seems to enjoy it judging by the way his pupils dilate. He smiles and risks taking another step toward the man. 

“Are you going to kill me too?” his mate asks and Jaskier feels pride war with instinctive horror at the bravery displayed.

“I would never hurt you.”

The Witcher frowns at the obvious honesty and runs his eyes over Jaskier in a cursory sweep for weapons. They both know he doesn’t need them, but Jaskier recognizes the habit for what it is. “Why did you help me?”

“The Caorthannach was in my territory,” he says, dodging the truth easily, “I would have killed it even if you did not.”

“No one told me there was a Kelpie in this region.”

“I avoid humans whenever I can.”

“But you chose to help me,” the warrior frowns at him and Jaskier buries a smile, “Do you know what I am?”

_Mate_ , his beast growls.

_Mine_.

“A Witcher,” he says instead.

His mate looks more confused by the answer. His eyes flick to the silver sword Jaskier can smell in the bushes nearby. “I could kill you.”

Jaskier’s grin is quick with promise. “You won’t.” The Witcher shifts, wincing when the movement tugs at the wound he’s favoring along his side. Jaskier takes another step toward him, hand outstretched in a placating gesture. “I’m not going to hurt you either,” he promises.

“Why not?”

The derision is obvious in the man’s tone, but it’s the lingering weariness that makes something inside Jaskier want to reach out and wrap himself around the Witcher like a protective shield. He knows the Witcher has no reason to trust him at this point. 

“The world has been unkind to you, Witcher,” Jaskier finally says, “but I have no quarrel with you. You smell of death and heroics--not cruelty.”

“Hmm.”

He smiles at the disgruntled sound, daring to close the distance between them and take a closer look at the wound in the other man’s side. “I’m Jaskier.”

For a moment, he thinks the Witcher will ignore the silent question in his eyes, but then:

“Geralt.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats, enjoying the way the syllables taste. “Will you stay here? At least until you’re healed?”

Geralt watches him for a long, lingering moment. “I’ll stay.”

“Good.” The grin he gives him is near feral with excitement. “When you’re feeling better, I’ll give you a ride you’ll never forget.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if it comes across well, but in Celtic mythology Kelpie's are infamous for stealing away people by pretending to be a normal horse. Then they take off and the riders are never seen again. Obviously, I prefer the implied sexual innuendo for the last line as well. ;)
> 
> If you want to send me a prompt or just hang out with me, you can find me on tumblr @geraskierficrecs!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annabanannabeth said to geraskierficrecs:  
> Hi! I’m absolutely in love with your writing and (if you like the idea) would be elated if you did a whumpy geraskier fic where jaskier looses his senses one by one❤️

The spell lands like lightning, spreading through his limbs like a wildfire.

Distantly, he sees Geralt rushing forward to land the killing blow. Focused. Unearthly. The only mortality that remained was the fear that flashed bright and fierce in his eyes when he watched Jaskier collapse.

He doesn’t feel himself hit the earth although the impact jars his bones hard enough that his teeth snap closed on his tongue. Blood pools in his mouth, familiar as a former lover and twice as bitter. 

Jaskier swallows it down and tries to find the strength to get back up before Geralt truly starts to worry. Somehow it’s even more difficult than he remembers to fight through the pain that’s still arcing in mad arcs down his spine. His mouth opens and closes around the name that’s become his lodestone for decades.

“G--Geralt.”

* * *

Before the next beat of his heart the Witcher is there, white hair flying behind him like the banner he would never wave. Calloused fingers brush over Jaskier’s prone form with familiar focus to catalog any explicit injuries.

“Did you...?” he asks, before Geralt cuts in.

“Where are you hurt?”

Like the word was its own trigger, Jaskier gasps as the pain burns brighter. He is incandescent, spine arching in a painful bow. His lungs go flat and grate against the air like they’ve forgotten how to fill. Fingers bury themselves into the earth and he pants, head tossing back and forth against dried leaves and forest floor.

“Jaskier!”

The name is fuzzy against the growing numbness pooling through his gut and spreading to his limbs. He reaches out and lets his fingers clamp tightly around Geralt’s. He wants to tell the Witcher not to worry, but his panic is a living, beating creature in his chest begging to be released.

“H...hurts,” he manages.

“I know, songbird,” Geralt soothes in a way that would have delighted him a year ago, but now seems like a mustard seed against the mountain of his agony. “The spell should lose its potency now that the mage is gone.”

The numbness is spreading faster now, making it impossible to tell if he’s truly grasping Geralt’s hand as tightly as his mind is begging for. “Wha--?”

When the words seem to fly from his grasp, Geralt moves closer like his proximity would be enough to heal all the hurt. “Some kind of paralysis, I think. I’m no mage.”

 _And Yennefer isn’t here,_ he doesn’t say. Jaskier already knows there’s nothing they can do to stop the spell now that its taken hold.

He stares up at Geralt anyway, trying to swallow when his tongue becomes thick in his mouth. “G--Ger--”

For the second time in his life, he finds himself unable to form a way to express the emotions trapped at the base of his throat by an uncooperative body. Only this time there’s no djinn or wish that will set him free. 

“It’s okay, Jask. Don’t try to speak. It’ll pass,” Geralt murmurs. 

His hand reaches out to thread through brown locks, but Jaskier can’t feel it. His head shifts with the motion, but his panic only grows when there is no other sensation to accompany it. If his eyes weren’t open, he wouldn’t even know Geralt was with him.

Jaskier’s mouth opens again, but he can’t seem to make a sound.

“I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay, Jaskier. I’ve got you.”

His eyes flit to Geralt, frantic as a drowning man to a raft. He tries again, desperate. “I l--love...you...”

Breathing is becoming more difficult now, but he tries not to let Geralt see that. His mortality has always been an unspoken fear between them and he isn’t so selfish as to make his passing cause even more pain. He can’t do that to his Witcher.

Geralt opens his mouth, lips shaping the words that have been pressed to every inch of Jaskier’s body--

But he can’t _hear them._

He stares at Geralt’s mouth like somehow the sound will return if he just wills it enough. Geralt frowns, looking uncertain when Jaskier continues to not react.

Tears burn at the edges of his eyes making him blink. He wishes he could feel them fall. He wishes he could feel anything at all beyond the dull throb of pain that reminds him he is still trapped within his body. His mouth opens again, but this time there’s nothing to hear.

Oh god, he can’t hear _anything_.

No song. No rustle of leaves. No familiar hoofbeats painting a rhythm against dry earth. No soft huffs or laughter or sarcastic hmm’s. 

He blinks again, trying to clear away the blurriness of the tears in his vision. To latch onto the vision of Geralt mouthing the words that still made his heart race each time. Grey mists linger at the edges of his visions like ghosts.

He blinks.

The mists creep closer, blocking out the halo of Geralt’s pale hair until it’s just a smear above him. He closes his eyes as hard as he could, but it’s not enough, why isn’t it enough? Why couldn’t he fucking _see_?

He loses himself then.

There’s no earth to ground himself against. No sunlight streaming from the treetops above them or even the scent of dead leaves to linger at the back of his throat like a bitter wine. No Geralt to whisper that it’s going to be alright. 

Only darkness and the silence that seems to rip away his sanity.

He wants to scream. To beg for some sympathetic deity to end this purgatory before he fully loses his mind. To cry out for Geralt to save him once again.

Jaskier wonders if this is what death is like. Maybe he just slipped away without realizing it. Maybe this is what he has left to look forward to for the rest of eternity. Maybe he’ll be trapped within this dark hell until his body rots away and his mind is finally destroyed.

Maybe it’s a gift not to see the casket close over his head and listen to the dirt cover his coffin.

If he could feel anything, he knew his lungs would be spasming now. It would sound grating and full of the panic that he had no outlet for now. He could picture the fear on Geralt’s face as he continued to talk to a bard that wasn’t able to respond any longer. If he concentrated, he could even pretend to feel those familiar hands tightening around his own limp fingers or continuing to card through his hair.

_I’ve got you, Jaskier._

But what if I can’t find you? he wanted to ask. What if I can’t see you there with me?

His heart must be racing, trying to survive even as his body continued to lay still. Instinct fighting against the spell to try to keep him alive for a little longer. For what? To suffer through the next millenia of waiting for some distorted mercy to end it all?

“--hear me? Jaskier, baby, _please_.”

He tilts his head toward the voice, eager for any comfort against the chaos in his mind.

Something brushes against him, light as a butterflies wings. He wants to press into it, let it soak into his bones until it’s branded into his soul.

“I’ve got you, I promise. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

There’s warmth all around him, seeping through the icy darkness like the first rays of sunshine. He shudders, wild. Desperate.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you. I love you so much. I love you--”

Geralt, his mind produces. Geralt.

“Please, songbird, you’ve got to open your eyes. Open your eyes for me.”

Jaskier fights against the insistent drag of the spell urging him to return to the silent peace of before. He thrashes against its hold, ripping away the tendrils still taking root in his mind until he feels his lungs draw in their first full breath in what feels like a lifetime. He clings to the deep rumble beside him like an anchor, letting it pull him back to the light.

He doesn’t know how long it takes. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Geralt would never abandon him. Not now. Not ever.

“I love you, Jaskier. I love you so much. I need you to open your eyes. Don’t leave me here without you. I can’t do this without you. Just open your eyes, baby.”

Jaskier’s lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile.

And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked any of these, come check out my full stories and come hang out with me on tumblr @geraskierficrecs!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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